Brotherhood
by Snark-bait
Summary: Historical AU/American Civil War. Set toward the end of the Confederate Government’s existence.House and Wilson strike up an unlikely friendship, after meeting while serving on opposing sides of the American Civil War. Gen/ mention of canon pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters belong to FOX

Chapter 1: _Ends and beginnings_

North Carolina: March 1865

Dawn was breaking. The surviving fires at the camp crackled as slivers of bluish-grey smoke escaped toward the treetops. The deeper into the forest they moved, the clearer the sound of people became - a low, collective muttering of exhaustion and disillusionment. Men were waking to another day where the impossible would be demanded of them, like it had been yesterday and would be until the war was over. The only shared hope came from the obvious certainty that this war was nearly at an end.

Two young sentries, as straight and unmoving as the oak trees behind them, guarded the north entrance. They were just visible beneath the dawn's breaking light. Eyes forward, they moved only their hands in quick salute as the party was marched into camp.

His wrists, bound behind his back upon capture, ached tremendously, but the pain there could not compare to the burn in his right leg. He'd caught a stray bullet in his thigh in the fall of '62 and the injury still prickled like an angry fire on a daily basis. They'd been forced to march through the night. Reports of Union battalions closing in from every direction haunted the straggle of remaining Confederate soldiers, and the men who had caught them hadn't wanted to rest until they had rejoined their Regiment.

Hell, _he _would have been happy to run into a stray Union infantry. He would be at his leisure to sit out the rest of the war in a Union prisoner camp, where he would surely get three meals a day _more_ than what he currently received with the 3rd Virginia Cavalry Regiment. Supply lines had been cut off and talk of Lee's men arriving in the area only matched the talk of Grant's men reaching them before Lee.

But these concerns were part of a larger picture. He had smaller matters to face; Major Cross's wrath and the punishment for desertion, which had become harsher in recent months. There was talk of swift and harsh court-martials where the hangings followed the next day. The Confederacy was leaking men faster than their defeated soldiers were leaking blood. Maybe an end now wasn't such a bad thing. He had seen and done terrible things since the war had started in 1861, when Confederate Batteries had opened fire on Fort Sumter. Since then death had occupied his every waking moment. He'd lost count of the amputations he'd performed on boys, barely into their teens, only to watch them die an agonising death a week later from disease. He had watched men clinging to life on the battlefield with their exposed organs drying out in the sun, their lives seeping away with each speck of moisture lost.

He'd seen Hell on Earth. An end to him would be unfortunate now, sure enough, but also an end to this war for him. Something within yearned for _that_ release. It was the reason he had chosen to risk desertion.

"You're a disgrace," an uncomfortably familiar voice yelled. Major Abner Cross strode toward him with his hands clasped behind his back, his chest thrust forward and his face and cheeks flushed with indignation. Cross's grey uniform was pristine and every buckle sparkled. His own uniform was torn, bloodied and stained with mud.

"Who could have known that an experienced war surgeon, a man who knows that his service is desperately needed at this critical time, was actually a dishonourable coward?"

"I knew," he volunteered with a slight shrug.

The privates who'd captured them on the outskirts of Jamestown pushed him and the two other deserters forward. He was a tall man, but the Major had two inches on him and greeted him back with a hard shove to the chest that threw him back. He stumbled and landed heavily on the ground. His fellow deserters - recent recruits in their early twenties - were marched on. The Major circled behind him and House closed his eyes when he felt the tip of a sword dig into the side of his neck. He believed the man was capable of executing him right there – should he wish to. With just a flick of the Virginian's wrist his throat would be cut. Cross would probably explain that House had foolishly tried to escape again. No one would know, and amidst the chaos, no one would care.

"What an example you have set to these young men," Cross hissed, as if his words caused him physical pain. Then there was a swell of muttering a little beyond them in the distance, and the Major stiffened, re-sheathed his sword and reached down and dragged House back to his feet by the scruff of his uniform.

"I would like nothing more than to send you for court-martial tomorrow morning-" The Major hissed into his ear.

"- but unfortunately your services are needed, doctor," Colonel Buford Carter interjected as he arrived, riding his favorite stallion Fire Fly. Young, fair and slight but with an easy, likeable manner, Colonel Carter was respected by everyone in his Regiment.

"Some of our men were ambushed during the night; they lie wounded and dying in these woods. I will spare you the indignity of court-martial, if you help to spare my men."

House's eyes followed his fellow rebel, rebels, disappearing into the woods.

"And them?" his voice sounded distant, like it had only barely struggled into existence, or maybe hadn't actually been his at all, but someone else's. He hadn't slept in days and hadn't eaten or taken any water in over twenty-four hours.

"They will be made an _example of_." The Major jutted his chin upwards. He smoothed his thick white moustache with a thumb and finger and then tugged the small tuft of white hair on his chin before twisting it into a neat point. "Would you like to join them, House?"

"They will receive a fair trial, tomorrow morning," the Colonel assured House. "Will you come now, doctor, please? these men have waited long enough for medical assistance."

"You have surgeons. Three, the last time I counted. Although Chase is entirely incompetent, I can imagine one might ignore him completely."

If he was here he would rather be doing his job. He wasn't in the habit of letting innocent men die if he could do anything to prevent it. But there were other surgeons in the camp.

"You are the most experienced surgeon here. I know you are well aware of this."

"I will attend to the men - if I have your word those two boys will not be executed."

"You have my word," the Colonel assured him with a slight nod as he turned his horse to leave, and House knew the Colonel to be a man of his word.

"Okay. Take me to your injured."

o-o-o-o-o-o

The make-shift hospital in the forest was a flurry of activity. Robert Chase looked up from the wound he was attending as House approached. As House got closer, it was obvious the younger surgeon appeared torn between the happiness he felt for seeing him again while trying to portray some sort of higher moral indignation.

"A man with a debilitating limp deserting - now I _have_ heard everything." Chase dropped his eyes back to his impossible, incurable injury.

The man beside Chase's patient was semi-conscious and writhing in pain on his crude bed, made from an old door and two saw horses pushed together. House lifted the bloodied blanket over the man's left leg, and took one look at the injury before reaching a quick, and absolute diagnosis.

"That leg, you're going to lose some of it."

"But, but he said," the soldier craned painfully around to look at Chase, "he said there was a chance..." he did not finish. His words gave way to pain and tears and finally, morbid comprehension. The man's knee was a gory mess of shattered bone and twisted sinew. Chase should have taken it off hours ago.

"Were you waiting for me return?" House asked the younger surgeon. Chase did not answer the question.

House continued on his way, out of the small clearing. He needed his medical equipment, which hopefully still remained in the main medical supply tent that was located deeper in the forest. Chase decided to follow for a moment, so he could hurl admonitions at him as he went.

"I have not yet had time to amputate that man's leg, and would rather he wait in agony and hope, than in desperation." House wasn't listening so Chase grabbed his arm and stopped him. He yanked himself free immediately.

"That man saw his brother and best friend die while you were running the other way. You could show a little compassion."

"Show him yours. Show it him as you explain that we ran out of chloroform in this camp two days ago, and that he will feel every inch of the blade I use to amputate his leg – which should have been taken last night."

He walked on but Chase did not, he merely called after him:

"It _would_ have been done last night, had you been here."

House continued deeper into the woods. Did the younger surgeon's comment induce the desired amount of guilt in him? No. He had been there too long now, everyday something more horrific to deal with: arms deep inside a solder's guts or tying arteries together before hacking limbs off boys; no, he was quite sure that he no longer felt anything at all.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The wound was not a serious one, he was sure of that now, but it had left him incapacitated for long enough to become separated from the rest of his men. Foreman was nervous and fidgety, more so than he had ever seen the man, who usually seemed calm and ready for anything. Captain James Wilson was sitting up against the burl of an old oak. At first he had guessed that he had taken some shrapnel to the stomach, and that he might not see another morning. But now there was light, it seemed he had actually been clipped on his hip with something smaller. The battle was a blur, he couldn't remember getting hit, but there was no shattered bone, not that he could see, and the wound appeared a minor hole in his bloody, blue uniform.

The Sgt. Major had stayed with him to help stop the bleeding, and he was immensely grateful to the man for that. In doing so they had lost their line completely. The only thing they knew for certain was that they were deep in enemy territory now. The Rebels were close.

He was planning his next move when a dishevelled man in a tattered Rebel uniform stepped into the clearing. He was not armed but Foreman's gun was at his shoulder and covering the man before the man even saw them. He did not seem bothered by either their presence or the gun on him. He merely sighed and muttered something about what he had done to deserve such 'A terrible morning'.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: characters belong to FOX

Chapter two: _the long walk home_

Maryland: September 1865

Nervous but ready, House cautiously stepped onto the porch. As he did the timbers creaked underneath his feet and the sound caused a half-dozen little memories to come back to him. Inconsequential things concerning the house that he'd forgotten, which in turn caused a sudden realisation in him - he had finally come home.

The price of the room he'd taken at the local inn had deprived him of his very last cent. With no discharge pay he had been forced to sell his only real possession, other than his cane - a pocket watch his father had given to him on his eighteenth birthday. It had meant nothing to him. He had needed to buy food and water for the long walk home, to purchase the small item in his vest pocket and the suit that he was wearing. He had not wanted to return to Maryland in his military uniform. Once out of the South, the public reaction to soldiers who continued to wear Confederate colors, even if only because they had no other clothes to travel home in, had not been a kind one.

The September air was balmy and the street was quiet. A black and tan dog stretched out in the sun just beyond the garden gate, but it was no guard dog; it hadn't moved an inch when he'd walked by it a moment earlier. He didn't think the street had changed a bit, and as he looked at their home, he didn't think _it_ had changed much either. The little swing on the porch looked like it might have had a lick of paint and maybe a new chain, but everything else looked just like it had the day he'd walked out of here, waving as she had watched him go with tears dampening both of her cheeks. The image of her had warmed his thoughts on so many cold, uncomfortable nights; he wondered how different she might look now. People could change dramatically in four years. He certainly was not the same man who had left this place, all that time ago. He just hoped there was something of his old self that she would recognize; that she would love.

She was the only person in the world who could pull him back here. The Battle of Sharpsburg, a battle that haunted him still, had happened close to this place. A violent stream of images invaded his mind at the thought of it. He felt sure he could not knock on the door until he had chased every unwanted memory from his mind. He didn't want such things sharing the same space in his heart and mind while he looked at her for the first time again. When he was quite sure the images were gone he reached forward and knocked on the door three times.

Resting his cane against his right leg, he wiped his free hand nervously down the front of his double breasted vest before removing his hat, which he placed respectfully against his chest. In his left hand he held a modest posy of wild flowers.

When she opened the door she was wearing a plain charcoal skirt. Tucked into that was a cream blouse that had a smudge of dirt on the right cuff. A dust cloth hung loosely in her right had. She looked better than he could have imagined. Her smell rushed out to greet him, and he inhaled, greedily.

"Stacy." He said, smiling like a child. Smiling like he'd only just discovered what a smile was. Her left hand fluttered to her chest like a startled bird and she dropped the dust cloth. She said nothing. For a moment they were silent, just taking the sight of one another in. By the time she found her tongue, her hands were clasped together and shaking against her chest, right above her rapidly beating heart.

"You're, alive," she whispered, her disbelief painfully obvious to him.

"I am," he agreed. A moment of silence, then:

"You did not write."

"No, I couldn't, it was...no, I did not."

He had planned how this was supposed to go in his mind. _First, before there were any words she embraced him, crushing the flowers against his chest. Then she told him how much she had missed him while she kissed his face and nose and ears and he wrapped his arms around her waist and laughed lightly, happy to be home_... But that had not happened. And then he saw it. She was wearing a wedding ring. He'd been planning to give her the one in his vest pocket, after leading her to the swing and telling her of his intention to marry her.

His big, genuine and joyful smile slipped from his face. He grasped for it as it fell but could not catch it. The nervous excitement that had occupied his stomach before turned now into an uncomfortable, swill of unease. He felt terrible, utterly terrible. He felt doomed. His chest felt tight. She followed his gaze and quickly covered her left hand with her right, as if she had been burned there.

"You're hurt," she said, distantly looking down at the cane. Before he could explain, a dark haired man appeared behind her and peered out at him.

"Stacy?" moderate concern.

"It's okay, Mark," she let out a small, nervous laugh. "This is Greg."

"Oh," he said evenly, but realisation quickly followed. "_Oh,_ my God." Mark smiled politely but his graciousness never reached his eyes, they merely remained concerned. He started to pull the door open further, and maybe even had the intention to step out and offer his hand, but Stacy, half-turning, stopped him by placing a hand to his chest.

"Please no, could we just have a moment alone?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Mark said. "I'll be right inside."

Silence squeezed into the gap between them, and then it leaked down the porch steps and into the street. Then House could no longer hear anything.

His head was empty of everything but that ring, not his but Mark's, on her finger. He felt entirely hollow.

"He fought for the North," Stacey said, distantly.

House cleared his throat and nodded. "Of course he did." _Of course he did_. More than two thirds of the men from this area had fought for the North.

Why had he come back here? How could he have ever entertained the idea? He felt foolish! Utterly foolish. What had he been thinking?

He looked down at the small offering of flowers in his right hand. They looked absurd. The violet petals looked garish now, and withered. They looked like the punch line to a terrible joke. The stems felt course and abrasive in his burning, clenched fist. He reached forward a fraction, and he was almost about to hand them to her anyway, when he realised that would be ridiculous and he changed course. He took two steps over toward the right, over to the swing on the porch. He placed the flowers there instead. Flowers on the grave of his love for this woman, a grave he hadn't even realised that he was coming to visit.

"It's good to see you." He said. The words tasted bitter in his mouth. He hated to hear them even though it was true. He hadn't seen this coming. How had he not seen this coming? His chest hurt now, immensely. He'd never felt anything like it, not even when he'd been shot.

He nodded politely and then started to leave. He wanted to run - he couldn't of course but he wanted to be gone so fast, as fast as he could carry himself.

"Greg!" Stacy called after him, quickly descending the steps and following.

"It was wrong of me to come." He said, unable to look back at her now. She placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him to face her. He looked past her, at the house, and the little garden, and the dog and the street. At the scene that had been on his mind every single day since he'd been here last. Part of him had always been here.

There were tears in her eyes now. "You must understand that I thought...I'd heard nothing. Even your mother thinks..."

"I shouldn't have assumed-"

"-Greg," Stacy broke in, "you do know that your father-"

"-yes; he died in '63, I know."

"Oh," her hands were still shaking. He wanted to take hold of them until she stilled, but he could not. "Have you anywhere to go?" She asked.

"Of course, I'm a war hero, lots of places to go."

"But, your side didn't win," she said, almost smiling, sensing humour underneath his statement.

"No it didn't," he agreed, although his statement had nothing to do with the war.

0-0-0-0-0

House decided he couldn't stay. Not even for one night, not in this town. He packed his things and left the inn. Once outside he reached into the small pocket of his vest and pulled out two things: a piece of paper and a ring. He held the ring between a thumb and finger and studied it, and then he dropped it into a pile of horse manure in the street. He looked at the piece of paper. On it, Captain James Wilson had written out the address for his home in Princeton. It was the only thing he had left in the world. House folded the small piece of paper and pushed it back into his pocket.

He had another long walk ahead of him.

North Carolina: March 1865

He simply could not see how his morning could get any worse, although, he did not like to tempt fate in this forest. He had stumbled upon two Union soldiers: one black with a loaded Enfield on him, and one white - a Captain going by the stripes – who appeared to be injured. House stopped and slowly raised his hands.

"How about this? You did not see me, and I did not see you?" House suggested, wearily.

"Absolutely not," the Enfield told him. "How many soldiers at your camp?"

"Ah, right now? Six hundred?" That was a wild and elaborate lie, but the Enfield looked sufficiently worried to glance at his injured Captain.

"He's lying," the Captain said dismissively. "There can't be more than two hundred."

"Well, actually, it will be one hundred and ninety-nine if I don't go back very soon."

House took one careful step forward. So did the man with the rifle.

"I wouldn't," the Enfield warned him.

"No, you probably would not," House agreed, "but you have not had _my_ morning."

House took another step forward, and the soldier took three, until the tip of his gun was almost touching House's nose.

"Don't," he warned.

"Here's a thing, if you shoot me the sound of your gun firing will alert every soldier in my camp to your position. And my guess is they'll shoot you first," he said, raising his eyebrows and peering around the gun, to better measure the man's reaction to this taunt.

"Take another step and you will be quite dead." He returned through gritted teeth.

"Depends where you hit me," House said thoughtfully. The soldier placed the tip of the Enfield against his forehead.

"Right, there," he returned, smirking. "You don't sound like you're from the South."

"And you don't look like you're from the South," House countered, "but here we both are!" He looked around the man with the gun to the man on the floor. "Can I be on my way now?"

"Enough!" The Captain heaved, before he squinted and shook his head, mildly frustrated. "Are you in some sort of a hurry to meet God today?"

House snorted. "You're a Captain with the Union and you still believe in God?" he laughed to himself, "Typical Yankee."

Somewhere behind him in the forest, a twig or a fallen branch snapped loudly. The soldier with the gun took a nervous step backwards.

"Whoever that is better come out or this one's dead!"

House looked behind him, for a moment there was nothing, and then Chase's head was clearly visible as he slowly came out from behind a bush. House closed his eyes and sighed loudly. Why did he always have to tempt fate?


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Characters belong to FOX

Chapter 3: _show and tell_

North Carolina: March 1865

Foreman turned his gun on the newcomer and stepped to the side, so he could place himself between the two Confederates and his injured Captain. Although Wilson admired the soldier's bravery, the manoeuvre hampered his view of the scene and forced him to shift painfully to one side of the tree, so he could still keep both enemies in sight. His stomach, painful and empty, felt nauseous and the smell of his blood only caused the sensation to worsen. The burning pain in his side continued to eat further and further into his body, making his hips and ribs ache powerfully. There was a real danger that he could pass out again. He could not let it happen. He buried a finger into his wound and bit his lip hard. The pain in his hip became excruciating, but the sting revived him, and returned him to his senses.

It was then that he realised that the older man was watching him. Actually, Wilson thought, it looked more like he was being studied by the man. Wilson could not place the man's confidence, but it was hard to look him in the eyes. There was something powerful and stubborn in those eyes. But the younger man, Wilson sensed, was far more dangerous. In that man's eyes he saw fear, anxiety, tension and anger – a trapped animal. And animals often lashed out when they became trapped. Wilson made sure to look the younger man in the eyes, and without looking away he carefully slid his pistol from its holster, hoping it would say something he did not have the tone or the breath for, in his weakened condition. Unfortunately, his pistol was empty of bullets and he was out of ammo, but the Confederate men did not know this and both appeared to be unarmed.

"Soldier, come up here," Foreman motioned to the newcomer, "come stand by this one." The man did as was asked of him.

"We're not soldiers," the first man said, "we're surgeons."

"Of course you are." Foreman, understandably doubtful, did not relax his guard or take his eyes from the newcomer.

"Why else would I be unarmed?" The first man replied, and that was a good question; Wilson had been wondering why they were roaming the forest unarmed and alone. Maybe that look he had seen in the first man's eyes had been curiosity – just a doctor's inquisitiveness. He hoped so.

Wilson sensed a decision needed to be made, something to end the stalemate and end it fast. The stranger had been right, if Foreman let off a shot, it would draw more men to their position, and such men would almost certainly be armed. Members of the Confederate Cavalry would not take a black soldier for a prisoner – they would execute him on sight. And then they would execute Wilson because he was fighting by his side.

"You two are no concern of mine," the first man said then. "All I want is to get my medical supplies, so I can return to camp and attend to my patient."

Foreman glanced unsurely at Wilson.

"Let him get what he needs," Wilson said. They had very little in the way of options. They had the barest of chances to escape the forest alive if he could dress his wound. If this man really was a surgeon, they could force him to help and then they could move on. "We shall watch his friend while he is gone to collect his things. If he agrees to attend my wound, they can both go one way and we shall go another."

"Fine," the first man said.

"Captain, if we allow these men to leave -" Foreman began but the younger man sensed the conversation's direction and interrupted him.

"-We have no desire to send men after you. We _are_ surgeons. Our objective is to help the wounded, not to cause more bloodshed."

"If you are surgeons then why are you in uniform?" Foreman countered, raising an eyebrow.

"Because that is how our commanding officer likes it," the older man answered. "If I do not return soon, he will come looking for me, and he is not a diplomatic man. He would sooner shoot all four of us than let you two escape."

"He's telling the truth," the younger man agreed.

"Let him get his medical supplies - that's an order," Wilson said to Foreman. "The young surgeon will stay with us until his friend returns."

The young man appeared concerned by this suggestion. The older man chanced a smirk at him. A loaded look passed between them, but neither said anything.

"I give you my word," Wilson continued, "that if you dress my wound you will both leave here, uninjured."

"Okay," the older man agreed. He began to leave the clearing, and Wilson noticed he had a heavy limp as he walked.

"It would be unwise of you to bring anyone back with you, Doctor. I would hate to be forced to hurt your friend," Wilson called after him, gravely.

If James Wilson had been in less pain, or had his heart not been racing so fast, he might have heard the man reply, 'He's not my friend,' with conviction. Had Wilson heard that reply, things might have gone differently. But Wilson _was_ in pain, and had not slept in days and was utterly exhausted. The comment did not reach his ears. He took a chance, and made a deal with the man, and let him be on his way.

Princeton: October 1865

Dusk had crept in all around James Wilson as he'd idled the evening away on his porch; the tincture of the October sky had slowly changed from a pleasant blend of amethyst and crimson to an inky, uninviting black. The host of stars above had him surrounded now, and he was quite at the mercy of the night. He sighed to himself and thought about going in again. Sleep had become and illusive adversary of late, and one he was having great difficulty in conquering. Only utter exhaustion would find him asleep soon after getting into his bed. He had spent the day fixing his stable, trying to tire himself out, but the cool air had revitalized him and he found he was wide awake now. It had been this way every night since he'd returned home from the war.

Under the light of the full moon, Wilson's pocket watch revealed the time to be just after midnight. He placed the watch in his waistcoat pocket and, with reluctance, finally decided to retire for the evening. Inside, he took a small dram of whiskey. He then locked both the front and back doors, and took his lamp to his bedroom. Once in bed, and knowing how awake he felt, he knew he could not close his eyes, for fear of what he might see behind them. He could not get comfortable. His bed was soft and relaxing - heavenly when compared to the tent and the cold floor he had suffered on the road home. But he was beginning to realise that his restlessness, lay not in his physical body, but in his mind. He could not get comfortable _there_. Being in this place did not feel right to him. His home no longer felt like home. The man who had lived in this house before the war did not exist anymore. That man had gone to fight and another man had returned in his place.

The bar in town stayed open all night, every night, and the faint, familiar jangle of the piano added to Wilson's restless irritation. He could not hear the music all that clearly, just to be aware of it was enough.

With both hands resting behind his head, he studied the big October moon for lack of anything else to do. He wondered if he should light the lamp again; maybe read a book until it made him sleepy, but quickly dismissed the idea. If he read tonight, it would lead to the habit of reading tomorrow and the next day, and then he feared he might never sleep again.

A loud thud outside the house stole Wilson from his thoughts. His body tensed, reflexively. He reached for the pistol beneath his bed, and quickly got up. He carefully peered through the window, but could see no men, although in the deep shadows beside his house, he thought he could see the outline of a horse.

He dressed quickly in the dark - trousers and a dress shirt and then reached for the kerosene lamp beside his bed, but he did not light it.

Wilson took the stairs two steps at a time, and stood with his back against the wall beside the door. He placed the lamp on the floor, and reached for the key that was still in the lock; he turned it as quietly as possible and then threw the door open quickly, stepping into the doorway and cocking the pistol, taking aim at whoever might be waiting outside. But he met with no danger. When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed there was a man sitting on the top step of his porch.

"Who's there?" He asked, pistol aimed at the stranger.

With a little effort, the man turned around and Wilson recognised him at once. He lowered his weapon and Greg House raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender.

"House?"

"Don't shoot, Jimmy." House said, slurring his words. His friend reeked of cheap liquor. Wilson returned inside, swapping the heavy pistol for his lamp. He lit it and when he returned to the porch he could see that House had, with a bit of effort, gotten to his feet and was leaning on the porch railing for support. Dressed in the suit and riding jacket he'd purchased from the tailor's in D.C. - they had travelled most of the distance home together - House's clothes were now torn and covered in dirt. His eyes were pained slits of red against the weak light of the lamp and his complexion was ruddy, like he'd been out in the sun and on the road for far too long.

Just beyond Wilson's home was the horse he had seen from his window.

"You said visit," House explained, removing his hat and holding his arms out wide, "so here I am."

"Most people are courteous enough to forewarn their host of their arrival," Wilson returned. "Time and date, that kind of thing."

"Most people are thieves and heathens," his friend lamented, drunkenly, "and I happen to find surprise visits quite entertaining, don't you?"

"You have a fine horse," Wilson observed, declining to discuss etiquette with House any further. It was quite a pointless exercise. The horse, a chestnut stallion in excellent condition, seemed of good breed, and had definitely not been with House when Wilson had left him at Washington.

House observed the horse for a moment.

"That horse?"

"Yes."

"Yeah," House observed, drawing the word out, "That's not my horse."

"You stole it?" Wilson enquired.

"_No_, it followed me here. Horses are fond of me."

Wilson sighed. This man was surely the most tiresome, frustrating man he had ever encountered in his life, but, Wilson had to admit he was also possibly the most entertaining man he had ever met. Here was a man who had explained that the only reason he had chosen to fight for the South in the war was to upset his father – a man who had died fighting the Confederacy.

"Did I wake Bunny?"House enquired, as he patted some of the dust from his jacket.

"It's Bonnie, and no. My wife is at her sister's. We decided not to share the house - for now," Wilson admitted, awkwardly.

"No? Why not?"

"It didn't seem, ah-" Wilson glanced into the empty street. It did not feel right to discuss his private affairs outside, regardless of the fact that they were the only people in the street in the early hours of the morning. "-proper, shall we go inside?"

After putting the horse in the stable, Wilson's attempt to get his friend to the guest room failed spectacularly. House had noticed the Steinway in the drawing room and was now coaxing gentle chords out of it. It sounded quite beautiful, even if there was the occasional drunken finger stumble.

"You play?" House asked when he finally admitted defeat, and that he was perhaps too drunk to play. He closed the lid over the keys and stroked a hand over the luxurious, rosewood finish.

"No," Wilson shook his head. "The piano belongs to my wife. What happened in Maryland? I thought you had intended to marry, Stacy? Was it?"

House's expression clouded, and he got unsteadily to his feet so he could pour himself another dram of Wilson's whiskey. He made it a large one and gulped it down in one; he then burped but did not excuse himself.

"She took to thinking I was a dead man, that was convenient because it allowed her to feel less guilty about marrying another man," he explained, bitterly. "She never was a very patient woman."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Wilson sympathised.

"So, now you should do the decent thing, and help me drown my sorrows." House said, brandishing a shot glass inches from Wilson's nose. Wilson agreed to one - to help him sleep.

Three hours later Wilson was almost as drunk as House had been, when he'd arrived and House had almost drunk himself sober. Almost.

"How many men you kill, in the war?" Wilson asked groggily.

"How many?"

"Uh huh?"

"Directly?" House mused, "Uh, not one, indirectly – more than one."

"Not one?"

"Surgeon here," he reminded Wilson, before taking a long swing of the whiskey bottle, "not a soldier."

"Right, well, what do you mean by indirectly?" Wilson asked, taking the bottle from House.

"After a battle a surgeon can make a bad decision in the heat of the moment, or a decision to save one man while another bleeds to death - men die. That's how I lost my rank."

Wilson frowned, "What rank?"

"Major."

Wilson nodded and took another swig of whiskey.

"I refused a direct order from a Lieutenant Colonel," House continued.

"Why?"

"He told me to treat a ranking officer before a dying Private. I told him the ranking officer could wait, the soldier could not. I did it my way, saved them both. But he was not a forgiving man."

"That's, unfortunate."

"Not really. Cross got his in the end. It wasn't his place to meddle, and his Colonel knew that." House grabbed the bottle and took another pull.

"What about you? You shoot a lot of people? You must have, you were a Captain."

Wilson's posture stiffened. He thought about the question, and took a long hit from the bottle before he spoke. "I shot more men than I can bear to think about," he said, regretfully. "If we're speaking freely-" he glanced at House, who shrugged in a way that assured Wilson he would remember very little of the conversation in the morning.

"-well, I haven't slept through the night since I got home," he admitted. "Not once."

"Right, because you're alive and they're dead," House considered.

"What do you mean?" Wilson asked, shifting in his seat to face House.

"Well, it's obviously your moral duty to feel guilty about all of those dead boys for the rest of your life. Who knows, if you do it, if you _do_ _it_ with enough conviction, it might bring some of them back to life." House's voice was squeaky with drunken, insincere geniality.

Wilson stared at him, not quite in disbelief but a little surprised by the sarcasm.

"You can be quite awful sometimes," Wilson said in a whisper.

"Yeah, but _I_ can sleep at night. I did what I had to do. So did you. Tormenting yourself about it now won't bring any of them back."

As true as the words were, Wilson was becoming uncomfortable. He frowned and shifted in his seat then he rubbed the back of his neck. He didn't want to talk about this anymore. He stared at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey that House was cradling. His vision was dancing out of focus. Outside, the sun would soon be up. Finally, he needed to sleep. At last, he felt exhausted enough to drop right off, so he got to his feet.

"Well, my congratulations on your failed attempt to woo your bride, sir," Wilson said jovially, just to give a little sting back. "And try going to sleep sober, sometime. You might find it's not as easy as you remember it, demons or not."

Wilson left the room then, swaying out of the door and meandering down the hall.

"Wilson?" House called after him.

"Yes?"

"Can I stay here the night?"

A pause, a gentle shake of the head, and then,

"I think you just did, but, yes."

Strangely, James Wilson liked being around Greg House, even though he was beginning to get the feeling the man was a lure for trouble. The stolen horse in his stable was testament to that.

"Goodnight then."

"Goodnight, House."

tbc


End file.
